


Try again, try harder

by justholdinghands



Category: The X-Files RPF
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 10:05:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8708275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justholdinghands/pseuds/justholdinghands
Summary: David and Gillian haven’t seen each other for a year, since last summer, on set. He rarely called and she hardly picked up. So when he learns she’s in New York, he feels the need to see her. Unfortunately, things won’t turn as well as he wished.





	1. Writer’s block

**Author's Note:**

> Hugs and kisses to the great @becksndot5 and @ilove-gillian. Thank you so much for encouraging me everyday to make these two suffer again and again :D I love you, girls, thank you for your advice and inputs! And thank you so so so so much to @sembell for your time, for correcting my many mistakes and for being an inspiration. <3
> 
> This is fiction.

His daughter told him once the internet isn’t good for him. It made him laugh, but she’d never been so right in her short life. He wanted to find the exact address of this restaurant he had dinner in earlier this week in Tribeca, and ended up watching pictures of her at a luncheon event in this same restaurant. She’s here, in town, and she didn’t bother to tell him. She looks dazzling on the pictures, her blond curls flowing over the white skin of her shoulders. She has lost weight, which he doesn’t care but he knows it’s never a good sign for her. She looks happy though, and seems to be enjoying herself around all these talented women. Good for her, he thinks.

That’s what their relationship is now. Work, only work. They’re colleagues, nothing else. No matter how many times they’d tried to make their relationship work, one of them was always unhappy. The last time had been last year, during the summer. Working together again had necessarily brought back tons and tons of deeply buried feelings, passion and frustration - with the slight difference they were now both single. So they tried again, because it seems like it’s what they’re condemn to do over and over. But fate was taking her away from him most of the time. Unfortunately, she had to travel back home more often than she’d expected to, and the little time she was actually there, he had to be somewhere else too. It was as if the universe was against them.

Deep down, he knows they hadn’t tried hard enough. He should have followed her. She could have come with him. They could have talked about it, discussed their issues instead of fucking them away and hide them under lust and weakness.

At the end of the summer, he left her with a promise of coming to see her in London a few days after. He never did, and she never asked. It’s been a year. Twelve long months of missed occasions, regretted phone calls and ashamed sext-messages at 3am feeling lonely in his empty New-York apartment.

After a few minutes, he finds out she’s here for a week, at least. After the anger that she deliberately hadn’t told him passed, he knows he must do something. Call her, maybe. But to tell her what? That he misses her, wants to see her, hates her for not telling him, but he also loves her and he can’t do anything against that? He doesn’t want to sound too desperate, and that’s usually what she reduces him to. He’s a writer, he should write. Send her a text. He can take his time, weight every word, think about what he wants to make her feel. He stares at his phone for long minutes, his two thumbs ready to tap on the screen, but nothing comes. He feels like he’s experiencing a writer’s block for the first time. Finally, after five minutes of painful hesitation, he manages to write three letters: “Hey.”

The ten long seconds following his text are the exact reason why he hates technology. It says way too much about people. He liked it when the screen of his phone was only black and white and he didn’t know when or where his messages were read. But it’s 2016, and he’s staring at the three dots showing up and disappearing endlessly every time she changes her answer.

“Hey,” he finally receives.

They know each other for twenty five years, they’ve both written at least two books and all they can come up with is “Hey.” How can he think they can make it work again? How will they be able to come back to the time they were happy together, twenty years ago, when she was naked and beautifully asleep in his arms before he fucked everything up?

“How’s Tribeca?”

Oh, for God’s sake! How old is he? Twelve? Man-up, Duchovny! he tells himself. Tell her, tell her everything. Tell her she’s breathtaking on these pictures, tell her you want to be next to her, tell her you want to smell her perfume in her neck, breathe her shampoo in her hair, tell her you want to hold her, kiss her. Everywhere. All the time. Tell her she means the world to you and you will never let her go again!

“Windy. How’s Manhattan?”

“Big.”

She used to tease him because he’d never been good at small talk, but this is beyond, and this has lasted too long already. He doesn’t second guess himself and decides to go straight to the point.

“Wanna come over tonight?”

“I can’t. I’m not free.”

“Okay. Tomorrow?”

“No, I mean… I’m not… FREE…”

Writer’s block again. Oddly, he doesn’t feel anything. In fact, he doesn’t know what he feels exactly. Anxiety, suffocation, grief, devastation, outrage, sorrow. All of them probably. But in the end, resignation is what comes to his mind. It was to be expected. She wasn’t going to wait for him eternally. He didn’t live like a monk either during those months without her, but it has always been clear in his mind that she would always have a special place in his heart and in his life if she wanted to. He was naive enough to think she felt the same. That’s his fault, not hers. At least, that’s what he tries to tell himself.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks, probably seeing he isn’t answering.

Talk about what? he thinks. Talk about how happy she is with another man? Talk about how beautiful and loved he makes her feel, how funny and sweet he is with her, how hard he makes her come with his stupid small dick?

“Not really.”

“Okay. I’m sorry, David.”

She means it. David has always been the love of her life, and in a certain way, he still is. But she has met someone else. Someone who’s here for her. Someone she can have a normal relationship with. He’s clever, brilliant even, funny, thoughtful, supportive, romantic, good with her kids. She doesn’t know if she’s in love already, but she can say he is, and she cares for him. It’s been a few months now, and it feels like it’s getting more and more serious every day. She likes to be with him, to savor a meal of fine cuisine in a fancy restaurant, chat for hours about deep subjects or sweet nothings by his fireplace, or fall in bed with exhaustion after a long Sunday with her kids or his. Of course, sex isn’t as good as what she’s used to from the past, but sex isn’t everything in a relationship, most of all at their ages. And he’s a tender and careful lover, which is all that matters in the end.

She didn’t really think about David during the last few months. She thought he may have met someone else, and they would eventually see each other again if Fox finally decided to pay her equally. When she arrived in New York, she thought about telling him, but she never really approached David’s subject with her new man, and felt it could be dangerous and jeopardize this new relationship. David has always been an issue with other men in her life. Even when nothing was going on between them, even when he was married, or when she was pregnant with someone else’s child. Things are both so easy and complicated with him. They look like a couple no matter what they do or say. He’s so territorial and protective. She gets so easily lost in the hazel of his eyes and feels physically attracted to him, she just can’t help it. She thought she should make things clear before imposing their relationship to someone new in her life. And she also wants to make things clear with David. She was a little unfair with him, she could have found another way to tell him.

The trip from Tribeca to the Upper West Side seems endless. Her mind is spinning with regrets and second thoughts. She should have answered his text differently. She should have called him in the first place. She should have called him to tell him she was coming. She still could. But what if he doesn’t want to see her? What if he isn’t home? What if he’s not alone? Before she realizes it, her driver was paid with extra tips, and she finds herself at his threshold. Should she use the key he’d given her years ago, or should she knock? After a few seconds of hesitation, she knocks.

“Hey.” she simply says as he opens the door, obviously taken aback.

She can’t see his eyes behind his tanned Ray-Ban, but she can tell he doesn’t feel good. It’s the early afternoon. Usually, at this time of the day, he’s already awake for nine or ten hours. He has worked out and ate three healthy meals. But the man she’s looking at is still wearing the clothes he has slept in, boardshorts and a ripped shirt. His hair is messy, and he doesn’t smell like he’s taken a shower this morning. To say the least, Brick is way more welcoming than him, happily barking and jumping around her.

“I thought I said no.” he sighs, pulling his dog from her legs and walks towards his living room, leaving the front door open for her.

“I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.” she says, closing the door behind her. “And I wanted to see you. We’re friends, after all.”

“Who is it? Do I know him?” he asks almost accusing, standing in the middle of his living room.

“Does it really matter?” she says with a soothing maternal voice.

“No.” he says, defeated. “Why didn’t you call when you arrived if you wanted to see me?” She can tell he doesn’t want to sound so desperate and resentful, but the tone in his voice betrays him with every word.

“I don’t know.” she says, meaning it. “I just thought it was not really appropriate, I thought I should talk to him before. About you. About us.”

“Us…” he repeats in a low sigh, shaking his head. “Wait. Is he here with you? In New York, I mean?” Great, she has offended him even more. She could have brought him with her here, he wouldn’t have been more furious.

She nods, almost ashamed, and watches him blush. He’s boiling inside and it shows on his face and on the little skin she can see of his chest. His fists are clenched, so is his jaw. She knows she’d better walk away before he explodes. She should have left him space and time to accept the idea he may have lost her forever. He wasn’t ready to see her, and she should have known it. In twenty years, she’d seen every aspects of his personality. She knows him by heart. The happy, goofy, and funny David can be adorable. The smart and deep David is so charming. But she’d already seen enraged and devastated David, and that’s not something she wants to see again. Unfortunately, it’s probably too late already.

“So why the fuck did you come here, Gillian?” He’s yelling now. The rage he kept inside since she’d showed up at his door can’t be contained any longer.

“I don’t know! I thought we could talk.” she whispers, slowly walking towards him in the vain hope to calm him down.

“Talk? And about what? What do you want me to say, Gill? That I’m happy for you?” He walks towards her with his fists clenched like a predator. “What do you want me to say, Gillian?” he repeats, two feet away from her. “That I can deal with it even if I love you so much that it hurts?”

“Dave.” she sighs, feeling the tears forming in her eyes. She holds her arm out to stop him from closing the distance but he sticks his chest on her palm. It’s been months since she’d touched him, but it feels like yesterday. He’s warm and hard, and she can feel his heart beat. Fast. Really fast.

“That you can be with who you want, it doesn’t matter because no one will ever love you like I do? That no matter how hard you try to be happy with another man, you still belong to me? That no matter how hard he makes you come-”

“You’re going too far.” she warns him, but he leans his body harder against her hand, almost hurting her wrist. Her arm is the only thing keeping him at a safe distance from her. She should go now. She should walk away. She doesn’t have to hear that, to see him like that, but her legs won’t listen. She’s paralyzed, stuck here, in the middle of his living room, on this ugly green carpet they’d made love on so often. Surrounded by the souvenirs she’d gifted him and the items she’d forgotten. Sometimes on purpose.

“Does he make you come, Gillian?”

“Why does everything have to be about sex with you?” she yells and protests, but he doesn’t move.

“I don’t know. You tell me. Isn’t that why you came here?” He grabs her wrist with strength, pushing her hand harder against him, slowly lowering it on his body. “Tell me, Gillian.” She helplessly watches her own hand traveling south on him, reaching his groin, powerless, paralyzed. “Isn’t that why you always come here?”

Before she realizes it, her little fingers are wrapped around the shape of his cock over his shorts. And he’s hard. Very hard. She fights the urge to stroke him, but she licks her lips reflexively and in a heartbeat, his mouth is on hers.

The strength of his move makes her step backward, and toss her head back, breaking the kiss. Time stops for a second. She tries to look into his eyes behind his glasses. She tries to recompose herself, to think straight again, but her hand is still on his bulge, and he’s waiting for her to make a decision. There’s only two choices. The good one and the wrong one. She can still leave and pretend nothing happened. They’re good at it. They’ve been practicing this for years. That’s the good decision. That’s what she has to do. That’s what she’s gonna do. That’s exactly what she would have done if her hand doesn’t have a mind on its own and wasn’t already slipping inside his shorts.

If she’s honest with herself, she has to admit it’s been a long time since she has felt so much passion during sex. It shouldn’t, but it feels good. It makes her feel alive again. Better, it makes her feel herself again. And he’s right, this might be unconscious, but it’s the exact reason what she came here for. As soon as she got his first text, the image of his head between her thighs surfaced and didn’t want to leave her thoughts. Why does it always have to be like that? Why does he make her weak? She’s better than that, she’s trying to build a solid relationship with a wonderful man who doesn’t deserve that she cheats on him. An hour ago, she wanted to make it work. She wanted to tell David it was over for good. How did she find herself pinned against his massive wooden bookshelf, frantically rubbing his dick inside his shorts? It’s funny how she feels she still has the choice to go when she’s biting at his bottom lip like it belongs to her. Actually, she definitely gives up when his hand slips inside her jeans and panties and his middle finger pushes inside her without warning.

That’s when he quickly adds a second one and she realizes how wet she is. One hand in his hair, pulling his head closer, the other one stroking his length, she decides to stop thinking. She’ll have plenty of time to regret this later. Now, she just needs to feel him inside her. He fingers her hard, his palm rubbing against her throbbing clit while his other hand is working on getting rid of her blouse. Too many buttons, not enough time. He finally just rips it, causing half a dozen of small black buttons to fly everywhere, making her stumble against his hard chest. The shock makes her contract around his fingers, and she moans out loudly.

“Turn around,” he orders and she obeys, reluctantly letting go of his cock.

He slides her blouse from her shoulders and pushes on her back to make it arch. She leans against the bookshelf, gripping at the rack as he parts her legs with his knees. His strong hands travels from her shoulder blades to cup her breasts over her bra. She pushes her ass against his cock, feeling the length of it between her cheeks and slightly thrusts in anticipation. He’s teasing her, pinching her nipples over the lace while she’s dripping wet in her jeans. She needs his dick inside her. Now. His fingers at the very least. Something. Even hers. She lets go of the shelf with one hand in intention to touch herself and release some pressure, but he stops her and grabs her hand, forcing her to rest it on her lower back. It may hurt, she isn’t sure. She isn’t sure of anything anyway, her brain feels anesthetized with desire. With his other hand, he pulls her jeans and panties down in one swift move, leaving her exposed and at his mercy. She feels a droplet of her juices flow along the inside of her thigh, and the scent of her own arousal suddenly fills the room.

He can smell it too. That characteristic scent he’d missed so much. Musky, heavy and intoxicating in the best way. In this position, he can see her glistening pussy ready for him. He’s still firmly gripping at her hand, and uses his other hand to pull his shorts down, beginning to stroke himself. He could stare at her cleft for hours It’s so perfect, and so wet. Just for him. For a second, he thinks about just slipping inside of her. That’s what she wants, he knows it. But he’s mesmerized by this droplet flowing from her pussy to the middle of her thigh and he unconsciously squats to lick it off. He thinks she hasn’t been fucked properly for a long time to be so soaked that quickly. It makes his dick twitch and his heart pound in his chest. What a waste of time! He stayed here for a year while he could have been inside of her.

She swears when the tip of his tongue meets her clit, his nose buried in the cleft of her ass. She tastes even better than what she smells like. Sour and sweet at the same time. He never gets enough of her. He literally devours her. The louder she moans, the faster he licks. His tongue circles her entrance, collecting her juices to spread them on her clit. His lips suck and nibble, swallowing her to ecstasy. When the pitch of her voice becomes too high, he can tell she’s going to come and he stops his motion with a last, long lick from her clit to her tight ass hole.

“God!” she protests, her free fist hitting the wood of the shelf. “Stop teasing me! Fuck me now!” she screams, making him smile.

The woman who less than an hour ago went here to break up with him, even though they’re not even together, is now naked, her legs wide open before him, on the verge of a strong orgasm, and begging him to fuck her. He knew it. She belongs to him. And he belongs to her. No matter how hard she tries to lie to herself. She doesn’t want a normal life with a nice guy, spending their evening watching movies and drinking expensive red wine. She can try to play house as much as she wants with another man, she’ll never be a housewife who cooks delicious meals for her man when he comes home from work. That’s not his Gillian. His Gillian is messy, crazy, and imperfect. She cooks pasta and fish sticks and she lets them burn. Her hair is never done, she never dresses on Sundays and she doesn’t give a fuck. His Gillian doesn’t like missionary, unless it’s on the floor of her trailer, and that’s why she’s urging him to put his dick inside her by thrusting her perfect ass against him. That’s the Gillian he loves. That’s the Gillian she really is, and he’s decided to remind her.

Still not letting go of her hand, he pushes his dick inside her, slowly at first and finally strongly buries himself deep inside her with a first hard thrust.

This is the sight he’ll never get tired of. His dick pounding inside her pussy, sliding out wetter every single time. And the sounds she makes. The best music he’s ever heard, filled with her moans and his on the beat of their flesh slapping against each other. She’s soft and warm and soaked, and the contractions of her muscles around him feel like heaven. It’s hot. Too hot. And he suddenly realizes he’s still wearing his shirt. Finally, he lets go of her hand to undress himself completely, trying to keep the rhythm of his hips.

“Harder. Please.” she whispers, slightly turning her head to look at him. He grips at her waist with one hand, and pulls at her hair with the other, making her back raise and the angle change a little. “Yeah, harder!” she encourages him, meeting his thrusts halfway.

He’s going full speed behind her now. The sensation of his dick hitting her cervix sends electric jolts through her whole body. She can feel him inside her with every fiber of her skin. The shelf she’s holding onto is starting to break under the strength of his assaults. One more souvenir she’ll leave in his apartment.

His fingers dig into the flesh of her ass, and her neck is contorted as he pulls at her hair harder and harder. He’s holding back, she can tell by the grunts escaping his throat.

It’s been months since someone has fucked her like that. Fucked her for real. And this last “someone” was him, in his trailer in Vancouver. She was bruised for weeks after, and he’s now giving her new ones, marking her as his, reminding her who she really belongs to. His right palm lands hard on her ass, making sure she gets it. God, if he does that again, she thinks. And he does. He spanks her ass once again and simultaneously throws a hard thrust And with that, she abandons herself to the waves of pleasure invading her whole. She loses consciousness for a fraction of a second, maybe two.

The answer to his previous question is no. No, the other one doesn’t make her come. Not like that. No one ever did. And no one ever will. It’s something so powerful, so unique that can only be shared by the two of them. It’s exquisite, pure, perfect and essential. But it’s not everything. Not if everything else doesn’t work. She’s more than flesh and bones. She should be able to survive without it. It was the last time. One last souvenir here, with him. They deserved it. But she needs to make the good choice now.

She turns around to face him and he knows. He knows it’s over. It’s written in her eyes. He knows he’s not the one she’s chosen. No matter how hard he made her come, he feels like he’s failed. His throat tightens, but he doesn’t want to cry. Not right now, not in front of her.

“I’m sorry,” she starts, but he stops her.

“Don’t.” he says, unable to form a complete sentence without bursting into tears. “Go. Just go.”

She picks up her clothes, pulls up her jeans, and puts her ripped blouse on her bare torso. He doesn’t move, doesn’t dare to dress up. He simply watches her steal his favorite grey and blue shirt off the rack of his lobby and close the door behind her. She’s gone in a heartbeat. Leaving him naked, spent, alone and miserable in the middle of his living room, tears flowing under his Ray-Ban.


	2. I'm sorry

When she’d separated from the father of her boys years ago, she made a promise to herself. She would never put herself in situations that would make her unhappy again. She would be honest with herself, honest with others and honest with the ones she loves. In less than an hour, she’d betrayed all of this. She’d hurt someone she loves, someone who loves her and she’d betrayed a man who was trying to make her happy. He would never forgive her. Of course, she doesn’t have to tell him. But what kind of healthy relationship is build up on lies? She can’t just go back to their hotel now, and pretend as if nothing happened. She would need to explain the marks on her skin, the missing buttons of her blouse, the extra large shirt she is wearing. And even if he would be kind enough to let it go and buys her explanations, there’s no way she could look at herself in a mirror again.

Her back pressed against his door, she delves into her purse to find her key chain. It’s not over. It can’t be over. Not like that, not so fast. He’s her best friend, her soulmate, the only one who knows her better than herself. The one she can confide her deepest, darkest, shameful thoughts to without ever feeling judged. He will understand. He always does. She made a mistake, but she regrets everything. The key struggles it’s way into the lock and she opens the door slowly.

His shirt is still laying on the carpet, but he’s no longer there. She crosses the living room to reach his bedroom, but a familiar silhouette in the corner of her eyes draws her attention to the terrace. He’s standing completely still, watching the reservoir of Central Park, bare-chested, his hands shoved in the pockets of his shorts. She opens the glass window with a muffled sound. He’d heard, of course, but he doesn’t move. His bare back is dramatically facing her. She stops behind him, silently observing, waiting for him to turn around, but it’s not happening.

“I’m sorry.” she whispers through the ball of tears stuck in her throat.

“You’ve said it already.” he says, still not looking at her. He doesn’t sound sad nor angry. He’s just distant. Absent, even. She’d broken something inside him, she can feel it. She’d broken many things inside of him over the years. Most of the time, she’d managed to fix it, other times, she let other women do it for her. But this time, it seems different. She expected him to scream, yell, cry, break a few plates maybe, but this… this is something else. “I haven’t recovered yet.” he says, finally turning around. His sunglasses on, she still can’t see his eyes, but his face is expressionless, and his tone is monotonous, factual.

“What?”

“My dick. It hasn’t recovered yet. I’m old.” She didn’t stay long in the hallway of his building, but she starts to wonder if it was enough for him to take drugs. What is he talking about? Why does he sound so odd? She frowns her eyebrows in misunderstanding. “Isn’t it what you came back for? Round two? I’m just a living fuck-toy, apparently. Maybe I should mold my cock for you one day.”

“No, I…” she sighs. He caught her off guard, she can’t find the words anymore. Her lungs feel empty, her throat dried, she suffocates. He crushed her against the wall and strangled her without a move.

“I can eat your pussy, though. I guess it hasn’t been done properly in a while.”

“Can you just stop this, please?” The words throw themselves out of her, higher, louder than expected. She sounds upset, hurt, but she doesn’t want to. “That’s not what I’m here for.” she feels the need to say, as if he doesn’t know it well.

“No? So what else do you want from me? What can I do for you? Tell me, Gillian. What do you want?”

“Forgive me,” she says out of breath, not able to hold back the tears anymore.

“I’ve done that before.” he says, walking past her without even looking at her, leaving her alone outside.

“David,” she follows him inside the apartment. She feels small, smaller than usual, and rejected. She isn’t used to feel like that, not with him. She’s always been the one in control of their relationship. She’s always been “the boss”, as he used to playfully call her. But something has changed. He’d taken the wheel, and she has no idea where they’re going. She doesn’t even know if they’re going anywhere, or if he’s driving alone and has left her on the side of the road.

“Go back to your hotel, Gill. He’s waiting for you.”

He enters his bedroom, but she doesn’t dare to follow him. She stands on the threshold, watching him shed his shorts. She feels like an uninvited stranger, a burglar, a voyeur invading his privacy. She closes her eyes in anticipation when he stands naked in front of her before slipping into sweatpants.

“I can’t. I don’t… I can’t.” she sighs, defeated.

He shrugs, puts a shirt on and leaves his bedroom, ignoring her.

“I’m out. Close the door when you leave.”

“What? Dav…” she doesn’t have the time to finish her sentence before the door slams shut, leaving her alone in his apartment. Even Brick is gone with him.


	3. I wish I didn’t care

Every time something goes wrong in his life, David works out. When West or Miller get on his nerves for whatever reason, he does some Yoga. When he can’t concentrate, remember his lines or doesn’t find the inspiration to write, Pilates helps him to refocus. Today, boxing was the best outlet to sort his temper and frustration out of his chest. His coach will probably spend the night with packs of ice, but it was either that or he would have broken every piece of furniture in his apartment. During the fight, he didn’t think about her at all, but the short night walk through Central Park from the gym to his home brings him back to reality. He wishes he could just hate her, tell her to go away, to get out of his life for good and never see her again. It would be so simple if he could hate her. Or if he could just don’t care. But he loves her and it’s bigger than him.

It’s late, he thinks she’s probably gone, has changed her mind once again, is laughing with another man, living her other life without thinking about him. Or she’d decided to tell him. To be honest for once, and he’d ditched her. He hopes she’s crying. He hopes she suffers as much as she makes him suffer. It’s childish, stupid, selfish, but revenge is what he hopes for. What he needs.

He opens his door, allows Brick to enter first, and takes a deep breath before stepping in. The atmosphere of his dark apartment is still loaded with bad energy. The scent of her fragrance is still imbued in the walls. The image of their last encounter, here, against his newly-broken bookshelf, still vivid in his mind.

At this time of the evening, he should be hungry. On any other day, he would have ordered something nice, maybe call his kids and see if one of them was free for dinner. He would have spent the night reading, writing, playing his guitar. He doesn’t feel like doing anything at all. He doesn’t feel like sleeping in his bed either. Too many memories of her that he doesn’t want to remember now. She hasn’t slept in his bed for more than a year, but somehow, he knows that he could still smell her hair on his pillow. He decides the couch will do the trick for tonight, like a character he used to be and will never play again. She’d broken that too.

But walking through his living room to grab a blanket, he notices a soft light under the door of his bedroom. It better not be West, he thinks. How many times did he tell her not to rummage through his room? But it’s not his daughter. Gillian’s still here, laying on his bed on top of the covers, still wearing his oversized grey and blue shirt, huddled up like she tried to warm herself up. She looks peaceful in her sleep, but the tissues on his nightstand and the blush around her swollen eyes show how much she’d been crying. She probably fell asleep in exhaustion.

He observes her for a long time. Watching Gillian sleep has always been sacred to him. She’s such an energetic woman during the day, she has such a powerful aura and she takes so much space even being so tiny, that there’s nothing more graceful and peaceful than watching her sleep. It feels like it’s the only moment of perfect quietness they can share. Even when they were watching a movie together, either she liked it and commented every single scene or she hated it and got bored after ten minutes.

As he carefully covers her body with the blanket he wanted to sleep with, he thinks she doesn’t deserve it. She doesn’t deserve to get warm. She’s broken his heart, ripped it into thousands pieces, put them back together and trampled on it with her feet. She deserves to freeze, but all he wants is to spoon her up, kiss her tears away and never let her go. He’s so weak for this woman, he thinks. He had hurt her once. Badly. Twenty years ago. And he spent the rest of his life trying to make it up to her. It worked, she’d forgiven him a long time ago but he never forgave himself, so he kept apologizing. She didn’t ask for anything, but he gave her the moon. It’s his fault if she’s so used to be forgiven. It’s his fault if she’s still here, on his bed, waiting for him to forgive her once again. But not this time. This time, she went too far.

“David,” she whispers, a tear running down the bridge of her nose. “Please. Stay.” she continues, watching him step away from his bedroom. “Please.”

He shrugs absently, and quietly undresses to his boxers before he slips under the covers on the other side of the bed, keeping a safe distance between them and lies on his back. He switches the lights off, his eyes wide open, staring at the invisible ceiling.

She doesn’t venture to move, nor to say a word. She barely dares to breathe. Her mind is spinning. She tries to interpret the signs. He’d put a blanket above her. So he still has tenderness for her, she guesses. He’d accepted to sleep in the same bed. It might mean something. He isn’t touching her, though. Maybe he’s waiting for her to make a move.

“David?” she tries after a few minutes of complete silence.

He doesn’t answer. Slowly, carefully, she gets closer to him until her fingertips brushes his ribs.

“Can I?” she whispers with a tremulous voice.

He still doesn’t say a word, but instead, shifts to his side, his back facing her, as far away from her as his bed allows him to. She swallows hard and silently lets the tears flow down her cheeks again. She knows how to deal with his anger, his bad mood, his moroseness, his sadness. But seeing him ignoring her is so new to her. Something she wishes she would have never known.


	4. fixing the broken pieces

She didn’t sleep that night. Every time she felt him move, she hoped it was to hold her. Every time she heard him breathe, she thought he wanted to talk to her, but he never did.

He’s still asleep when she gets up. She heads towards the kitchen to make fresh coffee, like she used to do hundreds of times before. In happier times. It’s a beautiful fall day in New York. Life has already started on the streets, she can see the joggers in Central Park from his window as well as business men and women calling cabs in their fancy suits and trench coats, parents running late to walk their kids to school. But nineteen floors up, the atmosphere is still quiet and heavy. The scent of his shirt on her body, the sound of his espresso machine and smell of fresh coffee flowing in her mug aren’t enough to calm her nerves. For the first time in her whole life, she fears they’d reached the point of no return. She’s scared there’s no way to fix what she’s broken.

“You’re still here?” his masculine, throaty morning voice asks as he enters the kitchen. “You can’t stay, I have the kids for lunch, and…”

“I’m not going anywhere.” she interrupts, ignoring his feint arrogance.

“Excuse me?” he asks, annoyed.

“Not before we talk. It’s not an option. You have to let me explain myself, David.”

If it has to be over for good, at least she wants to think she’s tried everything to get him back. She doesn’t want to live with regrets anymore, to keep living without knowing if he still loves her or not. A big part of the issues they used to have in their early days was due to their lack of communication. They didn’t know how to talk to each other, they only knew how to hurt each other. Over the years, they had several open-hearted conversation, some more painful than others, but they’ve always managed to forgive each other’s mistakes, to tolerate the failures and to move forward. She knows he probably won’t forgive her this time, his wound is too deep, but at least, she needs to tell him how much she regrets what she’d done, how much she loves him and always will. That she won’t be able to function without him.

“Go ahead. Explain yourself, Gillian. Humor me.” he says, a hint of disdain in his voice.

There are millions of things she would like to tell him, but the words just don’t want to get out of her chest. She watches him watching her, waiting. He looks sad, devastated, miserable, disappointed and yet strong and angry. She isn’t the kind of woman to be impressed by any men, not anymore, but she fears she would say something she would regret, so she says nothing. Her muteness brings her to tears. She feels her knees weaken, her cheeks blushing in frustration.

“I can’t!” she sobs, and walks the few steps separating them to crumble in his arms, without warning.

She’s never needed his arms around her more than at this particular moment, but he doesn’t move. He lets her cry and sob against his strong chest, still as a rock.

“I’m sorry, David.”

It feels like it’s the only thing she’s able to say lately. He knows she means it, but he isn’t sure he can forgive her this time. The more she cries, the more she repeats how sorry she is with her face buried in his shirt, the more her embrace tightens around him. Part of him wants to hold her, but the other part of him, the one who feels used and played feels like he deserves better than this, better than her. It has always been one of the many issues they had. They’ve always felt like they deserved better than each other, and yet all they could have was each other. No one was ever better than her for him, and no one will ever be, he knows that now. The kismet of their beginnings has become their fatality.

As he absently stares at the sky through the window of his kitchen, he feels her face rise and her wet cheek rubs against the stubble of his neck.

“I’m sorry, David.” she repeats again, whispering in his ear between sobs. “Forgive me.” She nibbles at his jawline, her breast purposefully pressed against his motionless self. “Please.” she softly kisses his lips, pulling his bottom lip between hers.

He wishes his body wouldn’t respond to her attacks, but it seems like it hasn’t learnt the lesson from yesterday, and there’s no way she doesn’t feel him hardening against her groin.

“Stop.” he finally says, grabbing her by her shoulders to push her away from him. “Please, stop this.”

“I’m sorry, that’s not what I wanted to do. I just… I don’t know… I don’t want to lose you, David.” Her voice cracks with emotion, and tears are flowing down her face tirelessly.

“Why did you come yesterday? Why are you still here?” he sighs, drained and literally out of energy. “What do you want, Gillian?”

“You!” she screams, falling against the kitchen island. “I want you. I just don’t know how to tell you anymore!”

“Yeah… You want me that’s why you’re with someone else now.”

“And what was I supposed to do? It’s been a year, David! A year! You don’t call, you don’t answer my texts. You were supposed to come to London last year and I’m still waiting! What was I supposed to do? Waiting for you? Stay chaste until you decide you’re ready to commit to me? You asked me what I want, and I told you, but guess what? I have no idea what *you* want, David! So yes, I met someone. He’s a nice guy, he loves me and he’s ready! But I’m going to hurt him because of you. Because I endlessly fall in love with you. Over and over again and I wish it would just stop! But it doesn’t! Never! I’m going to hurt someone I could have been happy with because I belong to someone who doesn’t want to belong to me. You want me to apologize? I’m sorry, David. I’m sorry you’ve learnt it this way, I’m sorry I’ve been weak yesterday. I’m sorry I used you, but don’t you ever dare to think you’re not the one I want.”

He wanted her to talk to him, he’s served. He wasn’t expecting her to go on such a rant, though. She was silent earlier, but she leaves him speechless now. He doesn’t know what to make of all of that. That’s the angriest, the most painful and beautiful declaration of love he’s ever received.

“Gill, I didn’t know…”

“What? That I suffer every time you call me, fuck me and ditch me? Every time you tell me you love me, that I’m the love of your life but you’re unable to be in a relationship with me? I’m tired of trying, David. I’m too old. I want someone who loves me for who I am, who doesn’t try to change me. I’m fucked up, I’m broken, but that’s who I am, and honestly, you’re not any better.”

“I know that. I just don’t know how to deal with you. I wish we could work together, but every time we try, one of us fucks it up. Every time. We can’t be together. That’s how it is.”

“Is that what you think?”

He isn’t sure he really means what he’s just said, but no matter how much it hurts, he nods at her question and watches her leave the room without looking at him.

He doesn’t move when he hears her fuss behind him. Her heels click on his floor under her quick, angry steps, and he can say she stops in his living room, breathing heavily, swearing inaudible words, pausing a few seconds and walking again before finally slamming the door shut behind her without a word.

She’s gone and he already regrets what he’s told her.


	5. The hundredth last second chance

The itch he feels on his neck is the reason he doesn’t like to grow a beard. But he was too lazy, or too sad, or too depressed to shave. Actually, he didn’t do anything the whole day. He canceled his work meetings, he even canceled lunch with his kids, pretending to be busy with something important. He will feel better, eventually. He knows it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not this year, actually. But he will. He will forget her. Maybe not completely, but at least he will stop smelling the remnants of her perfume everywhere. He will stop hearing her voice in his dreams, feeling the ghost of her hands on his skin. He will, one day. He doesn’t have a choice, anyway. But somehow, he likes the pain he feels right now. He feels like he should embrace it. It’s the only thing she’s left him. The pain and half of dozen of the black buttons of her blouse on the floor of his living room, like six little relics of what their relationship has always been: sex and pain.

He’s starving now. It’s a good sign, he guesses, something else to feel besides sorrow. He orders a pizza, with extra everything. Cheese, meat, sauce. Carbs are like chocolate ice-cream to him when he’s depressed. Why would he keep taking care of himself anyway? For whom? His last show tanked, he’ll never be Mulder again, not without Scully, he doesn’t have any other project as an actor, and every single song he will write from now on will be so depressing no one will want to hear them. He’ll be a writer. She sent him back to his original life-plan. He’ll probably end like the character of his book, overweight, sad and high all the time. But there won’t be any happy ending for him. He missed this occasion many times.

The pizza deliverer rings at his door sooner than expected. He feels like he’s gained weight already, supporting his own body has become difficult. He shuffles to his lobby, grabbing his wallet from the coffee table and opens the door.

“You don’t know how to make it work? Let me tell you how we’ll make it work.” Gillian states, quickly entering his apartment under his amazed gaze.

It takes him a few seconds to acknowledge her, be sure he isn’t dreaming, and realizing his pizza hasn’t arrived yet. The simple sound of her heels clicking on his floor makes him feel better instantly. It’s only been a few hours, but her presence already frees him from the heavy weight of his sorrow, no matter what she’s here for. Finally, he closes the door and joins her in the living room. She looks determined and full of self-confidence, even if her eyes are still red and swollen from the tears she cried earlier.

“I left him. I didn’t even do it for you, nor for me, but for him. He deserves to be with someone who’s free and I will never be free as long as you’re in my life.” She sounds factual, almost detached and emotionless. She clearly isn’t here for a discussion but to make a statement. She sounds like someone who has made a decision, and he’s waiting for her to tell him what she’s decided to do. “You said we can’t be together, but you know what? We can’t be without each other either. In fact, I can’t. So we’re gonna try again. We’re gonna try harder, because that’s all we can do.”

“Gill…” he starts, but gets interrupted right away.

“I’m not asking, David. I’m telling you. You’re gonna give me another chance. You have to.”

“We tried everything already, Gill.” he says, defeated.

“No. No, we didn’t. See this?” she says, holding her phone for him to look at. He doesn’t have his glasses on, but even from the distance, he can see a picture of Gillian, standing on his green carpet in front of his bookshelf in his two-color-block shirt. Her hair is messy, she smiles but she looks sad and tired, just like right now. He gets it now. That’s what she was doing before she left earlier. “This… This is Twitter. Watch me, David.”

She sent the picture before he even realized what she meant. They will know. Everyone. They’ll know she was here, in his apartment, wearing one of his famous shirt. He thought they’ve reached the point of no return earlier, but he was so wrong. This. This is the point of no return. He can already feel his own phone buzzing in his pocket. It took her half of a second to change their life forever, without even daring to ask him. This is the most selfish and generous thing she’s ever done. He can’t count how many times he’s told her he wanted to be with her in the light. He’s never understood why she wanted to keep their relationship so secret. He felt like she was ashamed of him, or she wasn’t sure, or maybe she was just too scared and didn’t trust him enough to protect her.

“What the fuck, Gillian!” he screams, holding his arm to make her stop, in vain.

“What? It’s not enough? Wait, there’s hundred pictures of us on this phone, I can post them too.” she says, scrolling her phone with two thumbs.

“No, no, no!” he exclaims, rushing towards her to take her phone from her. “Have you really thought about what you just did?” he asks, thoughtfully, feeling better to be in control again, her phone safe in his hands. He knows it’s a big decision, it’ll have so many consequences on their life and the ones they love, their kids, their families, their career, he hopes she’s weighed the pros and cons, at the very least.

“I have.” she sincerely says, looking into his eyes. “I love you, David. I mean it. I don’t want to be with anyone else, and I’m ready to let the world know about it. I’m not saying it’s gonna be easy. I still live in London and you still live here, but I think we both deserve one last chance to make it work. I don’t want to let you go without being sure we’ve tried everything before. You still can deny, though. People know I’m crazy, I totally could steal your shirt and pose for a selfie when you invited me over for breakfast. As a friend.”

“Yeah,“ he chuckles. “As if anyone would believe that.”

“So what do you think?” she asks, her insecurities suddenly taking over her voice.

“I think my phone will implode. I think Melanie’s gonna kill me. And you. And if I survive, Tea’s gonna kill me too. I think my lawyers will cost so much I’ll end up broken, and I think you made TMZ very happy.”

“David!” she says, impatiently.

“You’re sure that’s what you want?” he asks, closing the distance between them. He hasn’t planned to forgive her. He’s actually already started to believe he would never see her again. But what she just did for him, for them, is beyond everything he has hoped for. He knows it’s a huge step for her. She’s always been so private, so cautious of her personal life, and he needs to make sure she isn’t going to regret this later.

“Yes!” she says, almost relieved to see something else than anger and sadness in his eyes.

“Then, I think it’s gonna work.” he whispers, taking her beautiful face between his hands and finally capturing her lips with his.


	6. Epilogue

It’s been such a long time since she’s felt this. His head between her thighs, her whole body shaking with desire and her heart with love. She’s at peace, her back arching every time he pulls her swollen clit between his lips and sucks hard. He hasn’t even taken the time to undress her properly, he said he wanted to feel her taste on his tongue and she’d started to gush immediately. So he laid her down on his couch, frantically removed her pants and underwear and went right to the point, slipping his tongue between her wet folds.

His hand ventures on her upper body, under her shirt, under her lacy bra to pinch her nipple, hard, and to caress her areola, softly, to soothe the delicious pain he’s caused. She runs her fingers through his hair, pulling his head closer as he devours her. She feels her muscles contracting and her legs shaking around his face. She begs him not to stop, and he obeys, his fingers pinching her breasts harder and his tongue speeding its motions on her clit. She’s close. So close she’s at the point that all her senses are on mute. She can’t see straight, she can only smell her own arousal and she doesn’t hear the knock on the door when he suddenly stops and raises his head.

“Wait here.” he says. As if she could go anywhere.

She doesn’t need to protest. He’s gone, but she knows he’ll come back. He always comes back.

Laying on his couch, staring at his interior while he pays a pizza delivery boy coming from nowhere, she knows she’s made the good decision. She doesn’t fear to lose him anymore. This time is undoubtedly the good one. They’ll make it work and it’s starting right now. She knows they’ll make love all night, she’ll feel him inside her without fear, without resentment. She’ll take him in her mouth like he belongs to her She’ll let him release himself there without shame, because his pleasure is her pleasure. He’ll fill her perfectly, thrusting slowly and pounding hard, kissing her lips and biting her throat. She’ll come, hard, loud or quiet, and they’ll fall asleep in exhaustion, in each other’s arms, like there’s no tomorrow.

He comes back with a large pizza that he throws onto the coffee table before returning to what he was doing before. She has lost her focus a little bit, but feeling his thick middle finger entering her without warning resets her mind immediately.

“Feels good?” he asks, watching her reaction as he adds a second finger.

Yes, it feels good. It feels good to feel him close again. It feels good to know he loves her. It feels good to know they don’t need to hide anymore. And even if she’s leaving tomorrow, it feels good to know she won’t lose him again. Right?


End file.
